Burn
by flawedesires
Summary: The Jacksons have left camp in hopes of normality, hiding from anything and everything. Similarly, the Winchesters have been laying low, thanks to the various beings bidding for their heads on a platter. When a monster chase goes awry for Percy and Annabeth, the brothers are drawn to the case in search of something simple. Little surprise that nobody gets what they bargain for.
1. Chapter 1

**A little idea I can't seem to get out of my mind... Let me know what you think x**

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**1/Annabeth**

The first thing she noticed was the temperature.

Her skin prickled slightly, raising hairs on her exposed arms and legs. A girl of lesser knowledge would have blamed it on her uniform; short and thin, easily penetrated by cold. But she knew instantly that this was different. It wasn't someone cranking the thermostat, it wasn't a draft, it wasn't an idle door left propped open. This was a warning.

She surveyed the diner from where she stood. There was one customer left, which was understandable for the hour. He was dressed in mainly darks, his leather jacket worn and used, and judging from the amount of mud on his shoes and the state of his car outside, he was only passing through. Her gaze darted to the left, where her coworker was wiping down tables. Her back was turned, but she didn't need see the other girl's face to know she was watching that man.

On impulse, she snagged up the coffee jug and approached the man with quick steps. He was hunched over, his plate cleaned and his mug empty just as she thought, pouring intently over a crossword with only one word to fill. "Refill, sir?" She watched him look up in surprise, shaken from his thoughts. He was a large man, a scar marring on cheek under dark eyes. Fatigue marked him with even darker circles; he'd probably been driving all night. For a moment, she pitied him. And then she remembered that no one wanted to be pitied.

"No, just the check." His voice was tired too.

She nodded with a tight smile. She glanced down at his crossword. "It's 'petrichor,'" she said as she turned away.

"Sorry?"

He was looking at her in puzzlement. "Number forty-seven across." She smiled again from behind the counter. "The smell of dust after rain."

He nodded in thanks and bent over the crossword again. Keeping her eyes on him, she began to ring him up at the register.

A long, manicured hand on the register stopped her. "I can do that." Katrina had approached silently, and her closeness couldn't trigger a reaction other than a jerk of surprise. She seemed to enjoy it. Annabeth met Katrina's eyes with a steely gaze of her own. Katrina was taller than her, a brunette to her blonde, and far more beautiful to boot. But there were no doubts about what lay beneath that pretty face; hell, she could practically smell it on her.

"Are you sure?" It was easy enough to articulate an innocent, concerned tone. Annabeth frowned. "It's not a big deal."

Katrina smiled, an unnerving sight full of red lips and white teeth. "It's late. You should go home, I can close up."

Every muscle in her body was screaming, itching to act. _Don't leave them alone. Don't leave them alone._ Her mind knew better; logically, this was neither the time nor the place for a fight. And she couldn't kill Katrina now. Not when they were so close. Her thoughts went to the man with the crossword, and she considered her options. She chose the one that felt most wrong; it was probably the right one.

She smiled back. "Thanks." She made herself pull her coat over her uniform, sling her bag over her shoulder, and walk out the door, calling a goodnight to them both. It was warmer outside than in, but gooseflesh still covered her limbs, and she was clenching her fist so hard her nails were digging into her palm. _Don't go back. Don't go back. Don't go back,_ she chanted to herself.

But nevertheless, she found herself slipping in the back door. With a sinking feeling, she realized she was too late. The man was being barred from the door by Katrina, whose hands were gripping his collar, long nails digging in.

He was tripping over his own words. "Have to..." he struggled to procure a protest, but couldn't.

_I can save him._ The thought was motivation enough. She dropped her bag to the ground, already knowing nothing inside could help her. Left with only one choice, she reached for her knife, strapped securely to her thigh. It slid out of its sheath with a slight scraping noise that was somehow comforting. Despite it all, she caught herself wishing she could hear the sound of it slitting Katrina's throat.

"You have to stay with me," Katrina yanked the poor man to her, and, before Annabeth could attack, sank her teeth into his throat. She pressed her back to the wall, a string of curses running through her brain as the sounds of wet ripping and tearing could be heard in the back room. _I'm sorry._

She propelled herself into the room on pure impulse, a stupid move. But she knew someone who did everything on impulse and was still alive, so _what the hell?_ "Hey!"

Taken by surprise, Katrina's true form flashed through her disguise. Flaming head of hair, blood-stained fangs, and the unmistakable mismatched legs protruding from her uniform's skirt. One metallic, the other furred. _Empousa._

The creature gave a low hiss at the sight of the knife. "You." It was a snarl, but Annabeth was pleased to see the monster's crimson eyes widen by a fraction of an inch.

She twirled the blade. "Me."

"I thought I smelled something on you," Katrina growled. _"Demigod."_

"Masking spell," she replied. "Good to know it works. That means the others won't know I'm coming for them once you're dead."

Katrina hissed again, sliding into a crouch. "I'm going to rip your throat out."

She gripped the knife tightly. "I'd like to see you try."

The monster hurled itself at her; she flung the knife up to bat away the claws searching for skin to claw. She bit back a scream when they found purchase along the skin of her arm, nearly turning it to ribbons. She lurched away, parrying another strike, and hacked down with the knife. It screeched and skittered back, its stump of a wrist weeping blood. Annabeth struck down a swipe of the other hand and plunged the knife into Katrina's heart until the hilt was cutting into the fabric of her uniform.

The eyes had turned human again, a petty trick on Katrina's part. They were wide and glassy and blue, staring into Annabeth's with horror etched into them. The ruby lips parted, but only air wheezed through them rather than words. "Have fun in Tartarus," Annabeth hissed. And then with a final wail, Katrina exploded, leaving Annabeth coated in the glittery fine dust of her remains.

She coughed. It had settled in her hair and tainted her mouth with a foul taste. Like rot. She spat. One glance proved the man long dead. Katrina's first bite alone would have been enough. Annabeth sighed. She hated casualties.

"Nice one."

She didn't jump upon hearing the sudden voice. She only glared at the dark figure in the shadowy booth in the corner. "And where the hell have you been?" she demanded.

The pale boy raised an eyebrow at her. "Enjoying the show."

Annabeth bit down on her cheek. A few years ago she might've screamed at him. Why didn't you help? Why didn't you save him? But she knew what he would say.

He tilted his head, seeming to read her thoughts. And he said it anyway. "We can't save everyone."

It saddened her, that it was such a simple notion to him. For him, there wasn't much difference between the dead and the living. Just what world they walked in. But she knew he helped, when it was called for. He would point the occasional soul in the right direction, nudge them to Elysium rather than the Asphodel Fields or—gods forbid—the Fields of Punishment. She knew he tried. She just wished he would try harder.

His expression softened. "It was his time, anyway," he informed her quietly. "I couldn't have saved him if I wanted to."

She sighed. "I know." She wiped her knife clean on a neglected rag and stowed it away, then picked up a broom from the ground to quickly dispose of Katrina's remains. Once the dust was scattered, she picked up her bag. There would be no time to run tonight, even if she let herself want to. Like it or not, she would have to be there to find the body in the morning.

He slid easily to his feet, and she was suddenly reminded of how tall he was. He wasn't a boy anymore. "I grabbed the security tapes," he said. "You're safe."

She was still looking down at Katrina's last meal. "Can we—?"

"Your fingerprints would be all over him."

She went quiet. He was right, of course. The dead man would have to wait for others to bury him. She ran a hand through her hair. "I'm tired, Nico." She felt him appear beside her silently, offer his arm out to her.

"I know."

She took it halfheartedly, and he pulled her closer, his version of reassurance. "Let's go home. He's waiting."

And she gripped him a little bit tighter as he pulled them into nothingness.

* * *

Someone was hugging her as soon as they materialized, locking her into an iron grip she couldn't have broken even if she wanted to. Of course, she didn't want to. She sank into it instead, breathing in the smell of salt and home alike. He pulled back to stare at her, green eyes heavy with sleep, but still bright. She loved those eyes.

"Are you alright?"

She laughed. "I'm fine."

"She killed the empousa."

She shot Nico a glare as her boyfriend's mouth popped open. He grinned and winked at her impishly before ducking into the fridge; for cover or for food, she didn't know. She sighed. "Percy-"

"I should've been there with you." The eyes had turned from sleepy to hard as stones, and she wanted to roll hers. She kept them still in her head; she didn't want to fight him. Partially because she was tired, mostly because she already knew she would win.

"I'm fine," she repeated. "I can take care of myself, Seaweed Brain. It was one puny little empousa."

"Who was our only lead."

Oh, he was pulling that card. She leveled a glare at him. "Well, I'm sorry. I was more concerned with pulling her off an innocent man than finding her family."

"They'll be long gone by now," Nico put in. He was leaning over the counter with a carton of ice cream and a spoon, watching the two as though they were a soap opera.

Annabeth's lip curled at him. "I can make a few calls," she countered. "They'll be wiped out by morning." She turned away, hoping to go soak in a hot bath and forget everything she'd seen that night.

"That's not the point here." She paused mid-step, surprised by his tone. "You can't blow everything off to save one stranger. You'll get hurt."

She laughed again. "This coming from you? The one guy I know whose fatal flaw is turning himself into a human shield?" She scoffed at him before he could answer. "Don't be a hypocrite."

"Hypocrite? Coming from the girl who would sacrifice infants to a battle plan?" They were nose-to-nose now. "Why did you need to save him anyway? What was it to you?"

"It was the right thing to do!"

Silence crept in. She was half-hoping the force of her glare would burn a hole in his face. Even the sound of the spoon on the carton had stopped.

Percy was scowling. "Face it, Wise Girl. You just wanted to kill something."

"Ooh," Nico murmured.

Annabeth whirled on him. "You! Out!"

"Are Mommy and Daddy going to have a sword fight now?"

"No," she gritted out. "Mommy's going to shove a sword up your ass." The span of seconds it took him to shadow-travel upstairs was surprisingly pleasing. She turned back to Percy, whose gaze had become mournful. She sighed. "Fine. Maybe I did want to kill something. But I wanted to do it because it was killing first."

He broke her gaze to look down at the floor. He sighed too. "We'll have to move again."

"Not tonight." She kicked off her shoes and padded into the kitchen to heat some soup up. Percy was looking at her questioningly. "If I disappear the same night he dies, I'll be on someone's watchlist," she explained tiredly. "I have to be there to answer questions in the morning, at least. Or they'll get suspicious." She cranked up the burner with two fingers and turned to find him right behind her. "Lou Ellen's spell is holding," she reminded him.

He reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear. "We won't leave until it's over, then. We'll find some place small. Lay low."

"Isn't that what we're doing?"

"Hopefully, we're doing it well enough," he murmured. He kissed her forehead and brought her close, so her nose was pressed against his chest. There it was again. She never could understand why that salt smell stuck to his clothes. No matter how many times she washed them it wouldn't leave. She understood it's way of comfort even less; she just breathed it. And hoped.


	2. Chapter 2

**There won't be an update for a while, sorry darlings. It's finals week where I am, and I'm drowning over here.  
**

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**2/Sam**

It was rare time when he could have a nonsense thought.

Most of his waking moments were spent worrying—about Dean, about whomever they were trying to save, about everything. There wasn't much he was able to notice outside his job, not the color of a passing woman's dress or the scars on the wrists of the coffee girl. And if he did, he was never allowed to dwell on them. There were always more important things to confront.

But, as he climbed to his feet and straightened his clothes, Sam wondered how he and Dean looked to strangers. Two worn-out, suit-clad men wearing mismatched socks and in clear need of a better night's sleep, climbing out of a muscle car that would've better suited a pair of gang members than federal agents. Of course it didn't matter; the badges plus their sizes kept any questions to a minimum, and usually the occasional inquiry could be silenced by a stony glare if nothing else. He didn't have an opinion when it came to the Impala anyway; that was an argument he didn't care to be a part of.

It was what a certain angel would have called an "insignificant pinprick on the map," the town of Dawson Hills, Virginia. Maybe a few thousand residents, a university, a mall or two. And, among other things, a small diner just on the outskirts of it all. He never would've noticed it had they not been called there, and he wouldn't have stopped there even if he did. Except, he would have been made to. There was an advertisement for a new brand of pie. Which meant he would've had to submit to going in.

There were only a few spectators outside, craning their necks to see the massacre inside, but he was grateful for them. He was always under better control when being watched.

It was cool inside, a welcome alternative to the sweltering heat outside. The southeast was a sweaty, humid place, and frankly it was cooking Sam within his suit. He had an urge to go crash somewhere with a cold beer and a marathon of bad cable, but at this point it wouldn't happen until late that night. There were more pressing matters at hand. Mainly, the sight of an alarmingly mutilated man on the floor.

Blood was everywhere, like someone had exploded a can of paint. Decorating the walls, dotting the tile floor, even splattering the counter. Even the ring of pies on the counter was blood-sprinkled. Ever predictable, Dean nudged him upon spotting it. "Are you hungry?" he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

Sam glared. "Dude."

"Can I help you gentlemen?"

He snapped out of his warning stare to face the gruff-voiced sheriff standing tall with authority and less with height, fingers hooked through his belt loops. They showed off their badges again. "I'm Agent Sheen, this is Agent Charles. FBI," he rattled it off as they'd done a million times.

The sheriff's eyebrows rose, but otherwise there was no suspicion in his expression. All sheriffs seemed the same to Sam: older, run-down, tired of the job but still doing it. This one was no different. He was small and wiry, hair thinning slightly at the crown of his head. The badge on his chest read _Griffith_. His beady eyes flicked from one brother to the other. "What's the FBI care about a little homicide?" he questioned.

"We were in the neighborhood," Dean said.

It wasn't a lie; they'd been staying nearby, keeping their heads down for a little while. With Crowley in the wind, Dean mostly recovered, and Castiel sitting out, Sam was unsure about attracting attention where word could get back to, well, anyone. Especially when things were so quiet all of a sudden. That was another rare thing; a lull in the maelstrom. But Dean had been itching to kill something for days, and Sam found he didn't have much say in the matter. But he still couldn't fight the feeling of uneasiness curling dully in the pit of his stomach, like a cancer.

He studied the man on the floor, half his throat gone and his resulting pool of blood long-since settled. The slick white of bone was peeking out from the ragged crimson flesh, making his belly churn. No one had touched the body, and the eyes were left frozen open in fear. The face was clawed up on one side and pale in death, yet still shockingly recognizable. Of the three men that had disappeared from town in the past month, he was the most recent.

"…Luther Brune, killed sixteen hours ago." The sheriff sighed. "Waitresses come into work this morning, find him bled out right here."

"Any idea what did that?" Sam nodded at the man's injuries. He ignored Dean's puzzled look. He was curious.

Griffith gave a shrug. "I'd say it looks like an animal attack." He frowned. "We don't got much out here, though: coyotes, coons, the occasional lone wolf, but none of 'em go after people."

Dean squinted at the door. "How would an animal get in here?"

Griffith shrugged. "Haven't the foggiest, son. The security tapes were taken some time in the night, and my guess is that someone let it in." He sighed heavily. "Whatever it was, it must've been angry as all hell." Sam was a little too aware of the fact that he and Dean avoided eyes at the reference.

"And the waitresses?"

"Took their statements, let 'em go home. They were traumatized." He sighed. "According to them, there was one other girl working the shift when Brune was killed. A Katrina Hamilton. She hasn't been seen since."

"Have you notified the family?" Sam asked.

Griffith shook his head. "No family to notify, kid. Katrina moved here all alone a couple years back. Nice girl. Attends the university, does charity work, she's even helped out down at the station a few times." He rubbed his balding scalp. "It's a damn shame she got caught in the middle of all this. We're searching for her now."

"We'll look into it," Dean promised.

They thanked the man as he moved away. "That look like a vamp bite to you?" Sam muttered.

After a moment's hesitation, Dean shook his head slowly. "Nah, vamps don't do that." He rubbed at his upper lip, though Sam couldn't see anything there. "They feed on blood, not flesh. Whatever whacked him wanted to finish him."

Sam nodded silently in agreement. "So that rules out Katrina being turned. We would've seen a string of bodies anyway." He ran through his mental database of creeps. "Wendigo?" he suggested.

"Can you picture a wendigo fitting through that door without tearing this place up?" Dean chewed on his lip. "No. And even if it could, we'd be looking at a dead girl too."

"Then what?"

A wrinkle formed between Dean's brows in a pensive scowl. "I don't know." He squatted beside Brune's body, absently rubbing at his lip again.

Sam cleared his throat to avoid the remnants of guilt there. It was hard to forget Dean had been a vampire once; and even harder, that Sam had allowed it. Dean would blame it on the soulless part of him, he knew, but the truth of it was…Sam vividly remembered coming to that decision. Worse, he remembered that decision making complete, logical sense.

Teeth nipping down on his lower lip, he stepped away from his absorbed brother to take a closer look around. The EMF reader was picking up quick flares of activity when he rounded the dining room; there was definitely something there, though its mark seemed to have faded. But otherwise, nothing was amiss. For a moment he thought he found sulfur, but the powder he'd discovered coating the counter was gray rather than yellow, and it had no scent other than something burnt. Another look found it all over the place. It was most likely from the kitchen. No cold spots, talismans, hex bags—nothing.

He could feel his face settling into frustration as he met Dean at the door. He was mildly surprised to see that his brother wore the same look. Usually, when one had jack squat, the other would procure something. "Anything?" Dean asked.

Sam gave a one-shouldered shrug. "EMF says there's definitely something in there. But no sign of anything on the usual list."

Dean frowned. "Any ideas?"

"Could be a werewolf," Sam mused. "Hell, maybe even a ghost."

Dean sighed. "I talked to the sheriff some more; Brune wasn't even from this town. As far as the locals can tell, he was just passing through. His wife lives just a few miles out." He slid his hands in his pockets. "His truck out there's loaded up with enough to make it as far as Raleigh."

"He was running?" Sam's eyes darted to the man on the ground, being covered in a white sheet. He felt a twinge of sympathy for them, the man who wouldn't make it back, and the woman who was still waiting. But, soul or not, he couldn't worry about that.

"Yeah." Dean appeared unaffected. "Anyway, I say we go pay her a visit. See what he was running from."

* * *

It was one of those _I've never felt more awkward in my life_ situations.

There he was, sitting at one end of the couch with a plate of ham rolls in his lap, while Brune's wife sobbed rather loudly into Dean's shoulder on the other. Had the woman not been so hysterical, he would've laughed at the pained look on Dean's face.

After about ten particularly amusing minutes, Dean managed to grasp her by the shoulders and pulled her away from him. "Mrs. Brune, um-"

"It was one busted pipe!" she cried. Without the tear tracks ruining her careful makeup and the tissues balled up in her hand, she was very pretty, and Sam pitied her. She crushed another tissue to her face. "One pipe, and that stupid fight, and now look what happened!"

The look Dean shot him clearly spelled out _HELP_. So Sam set aside the plate and cleared his throat. "Ma'am, we're very sorry for your loss. But we just have a few questions we'd like to ask you concerning your husband's...death."

He had cringed away, expecting a fresh waterfall of tears, but thankfully she took a big breath and quieted down. "Yes, yes, of course."

"When was the last time you saw your husband exactly?"

She wrung her hands, further crumpling the tissues. "The day before last," she replied.

He jotted it down on his notepad. "And his trip was the result of a fight?"

Her face screwed up like a toddler's and he was afraid she would start crying again. She sniffled, "A pipe burst last week, and he spent all the money on a bar tab-a bar tab, of all things! And we fought and I kicked him out and..." She buried her face in her hands.

Sam's gaze flicked to Dean's impatient face. He hurried on. "Mrs. Brune, do you have any idea where your husband was going?"

The woman blew her nose. "No, no, I don't know. Maybe he just wanted to get away from here." At this, the tears came back, and Dean was forced to let her console herself with his shoulder.

"Erm..." Sam tapped his pen on the paper. "So you don't know anyone in Dawson Hills? Anyone that may have wanted to hurt your husband?"

Mrs. Brune jerked up, her eyes wide. "Hurt him?" she repeated. "Are you saying someone murdered him?"

"We have to consider every possibility," Dean told her.

Her hand had frozen in mid-motion of carrying the tissues to her face again. "Don't you think it would've been easier to shoot him? Or stab him? Or blow up his car? Why would anyone go through the trouble of setting a rabid animal on him?" She hiccuped.

"I'm very sorry," Sam tried to say.

She set her hands in her lap with another sniffle. "Is there anything else?" she asked. She wiped under her eyes. "I have to...to pick up my son from school."

"No, that'll be all." Dean's response came quick and rushed, and he stood up abruptly. "We're very sorry about this."

Sam rose too, tucking the notepad away, and sighed. He said nothing to her; he knew nothing anyone said could help. He was still wishing he could when he left.

"Well, that was pointless," Dean remarked as they clumped down the porch steps. He wiped off his jacket. "This means Luther was a chomp-n-go."

Sam yanked the files from the glove compartment. "I've been looking into it; more and more men have been going missing from Dawson Hills," he opened them on the roof of the Impala on display. "It used to be just a few every year, like any normal town, but recently the number's been going up and up."

"Something's gettin' hungrier," Dean concluded.

Sam nodded grimly. "And we've got to find it before it gets that girl."

They agreed to split up when they reached Dawson Hills. Dean would go talk to the waitresses who'd found the body; one of them had supposedly been working the same shift as Katrina Hamilton. Sam would scope the girl's apartment to see if she was involved somehow.

The drive was short. Despite the AC/DC blaring out of the speakers, there still managed to be silence in the front seat. But he wasn't concerned about that. Silence was what he usually required, though he hardly ever got it. He bit his cheek. The sheriff's case files were open in his lap and the words were awaiting his attention, but he found himself staring out the window with his hand at his mouth, thinking that there was something off about this one.

But maybe it was just his imagination.

* * *

**Dawson Hills is a town I made up; I don't live on the East Coast and I've only been there once, so I decided not to try and write about a place I know next to nothing about, just in case I get anything horribly wrong.  
**

**Let me know how you think this one turned out! x**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi dears, sorry it's taken so long. I had loads of schoolwork, and then right when I was ready to update a few days ago I realized some plot mistakes that I hope have now turned out okay.  
**

**I may upload another chapter today, so keep an eye out x  
**

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**3/Dean**

Ella Price, the first of the two waitresses from the crime scene, was a nervous wreck. She was a tiny, fragile thing who couldn't sit still to save her life. She kept knocking over things as she moved, even spilling a glass of water on Dean's shoes. The poor thing could hardly answer his questions, and he even when he managed to get clear replies he realized they couldn't help him at all.

"And did you ever notice anything strange?"

She blinked at him with her small eyes. Her nose was red, as though she had been crying before he showed up. She probably had—a suburban-born girl who had only ever seen blood from a friggin' paper cut would be traumatized by the sight of diner guy. "Strange?" she repeated, her voice high-pitched. There was no glimmer of understanding in her face.

He waved his pen impatiently. "Changes in Katrina's behavior, weird things happening at the diner?"

Ella laughed, but the sound faltered when she saw Dean's expectant face. She raked her fingers through her hair. "Katrina was always strange, Agent Charles. She had this way of getting whatever she wanted, but we all knew how she could be." Dean raised his eyebrows, urging her to continue. She sniffed. "Men would look at her and give her fifty-dollar tips, she could convince almost anyone to cover her shifts," she shrugged. "I used to think it was just because she smiled a lot and hiked up her skirts, but…"

Unsurprisingly, Dean would have guessed the same. "But?" he encouraged.

Ella stared at him for a moment. She sniffed again. "You know, it's probably nothing. It's just…" She wet her lips. "There was something so off about her. Those eyes." She hunched her shoulders a bit in a contained shudder. "Those eyes could make you do anything."

* * *

Dean stared at Katrina's picture for a long time. It was a small, wallet-sized photograph paper-clipped to the first page of her very thin file (courtesy of the department). She was a good-looking girl, he observed. Brunette, tall and long, with a thousand-watt smile and a too-small t-shirt. _Jail bait,_ Sam might've called her. Her eyes were big and blue, but as far as Dean could see they were normal.

He rapped his fingers along the steering wheel. _Anything,_ huh? He'd like to see that. He looked out of the window at the low house across the street. _The Jacksons,_ the mailbox read in hand-painted calligraphy. The house was dark, no sign of anyone home. He briefly considered going back to the hotel for a few hours, but eventually came to the reluctant conclusion that once he got there, he'd be forced to delve into research. Needless to say, the idea was…unappealing.

A fly buzzed by his left ear, drawing his attention. He managed to crush the little son of a bitch in the crack of the window—a small, but satisfying victory. When he focused back on the house, he balked in his seat. Standing where just seconds before little more than dust existed was a blonde girl, unlocking the front door as he watched. Another moment and she disappeared inside, with him staring dumbstruck after her.

Later, he would blame his instincts for carrying him out of the Impala and across the street at such a rushed pace. (Although _suspicion_ would have covered it as well.) He glanced in the window; the girl was bent out of sight, removing her shoes. With little else to do, he raised his fist and knocked sharply. There was silence from behind the door. He surveyed the street behind him; empty. When he turned around, he found himself face-to-face with Jo Harvelle.

He blinked. No. Not Jo. This girl was of similar height and build, with the same curly blonde hair, but her face was all angles and cheekbones rather than Jo's soft features. Her lips were thinner as well, and she had gray eyes instead of brown. She raised her thin eyebrows at him as he stared at her, dumbstruck. "Yes?"

He shook himself. "Sorry, did you drive up?" He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I've been sitting out there for a while and I didn't see a car."

Suspicion rippled across her face. "No, I…came from the back. Forgot my keys, had to go hunt down the spare." The corners of her mouth turned down. "Can I help you?"

"You're Annabeth Jackson?" She nodded. She subtly narrowed the gap in the door in preparation to close it on him, which was a reaction he deemed acceptable for the situation.

"Special Agent Charles, FBI." He flashed the badge. As he did so, a glint passed through her eyes—realization, and something he couldn't quite identify. Alarm? Fear? It was gone as quickly as it came, leaving him without a solid answer. He continued, "Just a few questions—"

"About the diner," she finished for him. She smiled sadly. She stepped aside. "Come on in."

It was a cozy place, he supposed, with a blue-and-white beachy sort of look one would expect from Californians rather than people living miles from any oceans. Messy, too—every surface was covered with one thing or another. Random sketches cluttered the table, coins and rocks dotted the many shelves, even an odd-looking horn, which she was quick to snatch up. She rehung it on a nail in the wall with a strange amount of care for a worn piece of crap. She smiled again. "Sorry about the mess," she said. "You know how boys are."

He studied a photograph hung above one of the bookshelves: a younger version of Annabeth tackling a dark-haired boy about her age on a beach somewhere. It looked like a picture teenagers would take, and he held back a snort. "How old?" he asked absentmindedly of her statement. He picked up one of the coins: large and unevenly cut—and pure gold, but the feel of it. He discreetly tucked it away before she could see.

"Twenty," she laughed. "And eighteen." Dean shot her a questioning look over his shoulder, to which she replied, "My husband and his cousin. They're out on a _man's day_." Her voice drew sarcastic quotes around the phrase. She emerged from the kitchen and set two glasses of lemonade amongst the scattered papers on the table, then sat in an armchair, waving at him to do the same. It was cushiony, and the lemonade was sweet.

"Ask away," she said comfortably; a little too comfortably for a girl who'd seen a man ripped apart in front of her. She seemed—thank God—a hell of a lot calmer than Ella. Dean's questions were answered with yes or no or one-sentenced responses, and the cookies she offered him were damn good despite being blue. He frequently glanced back up at her from his notepad, and he couldn't deny he had to keep checking to be sure the striking resemblance she bore was just that—resemblance. She certainly dressed like a housewife, in denim jeans and a cotton white blouse. If she wore less pastel and more leather he wouldn't be surprised to find a gun at her hip, he decided. The gray of her eyes was oddly intense, and though she looked at him lightly, she seemed to be scrutinizing him.

Dean flipped through his notepad. "I was told you were the only one who had Katrina's shift last night." The girl nodded. "Did you see anything?"

She shook her head. "I left early. Katrina knew I had classes today, so she offered to cover for me. I didn't see anything."

"No one?" Dean repeated. "How about in the parking lot? In the corner of your eye—anything?"

She seemed taken aback by the questions. "I'm sorry, no."

So much for a different perspective. Despite being almost as useless as Ella, she wished him well on the investigation and scribbled down the house phone in case he had any more questions—which, if not for the wedding band on her left hand, he would have. She smiled pleasantly again from the door, and Dean drove away from the house with a frown on his face, thinking of another blonde someone.

* * *

God, he really hated motel rooms.

It'd been…hard to grow accustomed to them again, after his long-lost year of domesticity. The first few nights sleeping on a motel bed saw him tossing and turning in the dark, irked by the sudden lumpiness of the mattress and the stench of cheap detergent. Sam had pretended not to notice, he knew, which he was thankful for. The Braedens were something he accepted he would never have again—and he frankly wanted them to stay buried at the back of his mind, though they often surfaced in his dreams. The frequency of those nightmares dwindled over the time he spent away from them, but it was little, annoying things like pay-by-the-hour motels that made him really miss them.

He frowned as he poked at the keyboard of Sam's laptop. No matter how many times he had to deal with that thing, he never could understand it. Sam usually did the research—half because he had more patience for it, half because he could type at lightning speed.

Annabeth's coin procured a long list of articles on Greek culture. A drachma, it was called; Greek currency from the good ol' days of gods and monsters. He eyed it from his place, sitting pretty like the lump of gold it was. She sure collected some odd things.

Dean drummed his fingers lightly on the board. None of it made any sense. Individually, any characteristic of this monster's M.O. indicated a certain creep, but put together made an anomaly Dean's gut was not very taken to.

The sharp ring of his cell saved him from yet another internet search. He dove for it across the table and answered on the second ring. "Hey, Sammy." Dean stretched in his chair. Maybe Sam could grab some grub on the way back from Katrina's. "Did you find anything?"

"Um, yeah…"

Dean wedged the phone between his shoulder and his cheek as he unwrapped his fifth candy bar of the day. "Alright," he said around a mouthful of chocolate, "I've been looking for any lore on this son of bitch for like two hours, and the only things that come up are vampires, werewolves, and okami. But I called up Garth and he says there ain't a vamp nest within five hundred miles of here, and he hasn't heard a thing about new werewolves lately except for that swarm on the west coa—"

"Dean."

The younger's tone pulled Dean away from his rant, and he frowned. "What? Spit it out."

"There's a fridge full of bodies."

Dean froze mid-bite. "There's a what?"

A door could be heard opening on Sam's end. "A fridge full of human body parts," Sam repeated. "Dean, it looks like pieces of every missing person from this town. And—ohh." The door slammed shut.

Deprived of his appetite, he tossed the candy in the garbage. "What?" he pressed urgently.

"Nothing," Sam cleared his throat. "Um, everything's bagged and tagged. No blood. Some of it looks…half-eaten."

Dean reached for his keys and pushed himself to his feet. "I'm coming over there." He turned in a circle, searching for his jacket. "Any sign of the man-eater?"

"No, no," Sam said, and Dean paused just as he found the thing draped over the bed. "This place is deserted," he assured dismissively.

Dean frowned. "Snap some pics and get back here as soon as you can," he ordered. Then he added quickly, "Uh, your damn computer froze again."

"Stop watching porn on it then; the ads make the browser slow."

Dean made a face Sam would have deemed childish. "I don't know what you're talking about," he defended over Sam's snort. "Wipe your prints, sasquatch. And get us some food." He hung up before Sam could reply, shaking his head.

* * *

Half an hour later, Sam was kicking the door closed behind him with a humungous foot, jostling Dean awake from his nap. "Any word from Cas?" he asked loudly.

"Nope," Dean muttered with his eyes still closed. He rubbed at his mouth in drowsiness, unaware that from across the room, Sam was staring at him exasperatedly.

He heard the bag of food being thumped onto the table. "Don't you think it's a little weird we haven't heard from him?" his brother said, albeit a little forcefully.

Dean didn't have to look to know what his expression would be; eyebrow raised into his hairline, lips pursed preemptively against whatever he thought Dean's response would be. He sat up with a groan. "We aren't _married_ to the guy." He turned to face Sam and—yep, there it was. The skeptical face. Dean countered it with his authoritative one, which normally didn't get very much use. "Cas is a big boy," he reminded Sam. "He can take care of himself." He got up to inspect the fruits of Sam's journey for food. "He'll drop in when he wants to drop in. He's got enough on his mind."

Sam was shaking his head, but Dean was more concerned with the bucket of chicken Sam had acquired. He had just ripped off a large chunk of meat when his phone began its shrill harangue from the table. Sam, having plopped down on the second bed, frowned in puzzlement at Dean, who shrugged. He wiped his greasy fingers on his jeans before scooping it up.

"Hello?" he said, muffled.

"Dean. Where are you?" The tones were low and hushed and urgent as always.

Dean blinked. "Cas?" Sam's head snapped up to shoot Dean a _what the fuck_ look. Dean threw up his hands—or, hand—in a violent rebuttal of _I don't know, man._ "Um, Dawson Hills, Virginia. True Blue Motel."

"Dean," Castiel said again, and this time his voice was doubled.

Dean turned, hands full of chicken, to find Castiel standing a foot away from him. He refrained from lurching back. "Um," he said. "Hey, Cas."

The blue eyes were as serious as ever. "We need to talk."

* * *

**Let me know if it's turning out okay:)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hi dears.  
**

**If it's seemed a bit jumbled to you in terms of timing, that's because it's been the same to me. When I wrote this I was thinking of an early season 7 sort of era, even though it wasn't very clear. However, I've finally settled on a time period: think season 8, post-Hunteri Heroici but pre-Torn and Frayed. **

**Any indications of other seasons and whatnot should be considered typos from now on! (I'll go back and fix them later.)  
**

**Sorry about the delay, here's an extra long chapter for you.  
**

* * *

**4/Percy**

Useful as they were, there was nothing in the world that could convince Percy to trust cell phones.

Hell, he spent half his life avoiding them. _Technology and demigods don't mix, Seaweed Brain,_ he'd once been told. And it was hard to forget what using some equaled back in the day. So, it somehow always managed to startle him when he heard the shrill ringing from his pocket. And for the first few seconds he'd take an abrupt look around, waiting for something to attack him, like every muscle in his body reminded him to do. Nothing ever did (which, granted, tended to earn him some strange looks), but the habit didn't show any signs of fading.

This time was no exception; sighing at the confused look a coworker was giving him, he pulled the phone from his pocket and answered. "What?" He usually didn't get calls when out on an inspection; working for the city maintaining water systems was a quiet profession, most of the time. Had he not been using it for extra cash, he might have liked it.

"Whoa," Nico drawled through the line, "don't get your panties in a bunch. It's just me."

The muscles in his jaw twitched in irritation. "I know," Percy replied grimly. "What is it?"

"Hold on a sec—ow, shit!" he hissed. There was a rustling noise, like he was pushing through leaves. The mental image of his cousin squatting in bushes nearly choked Percy with laughter. However, the only sound that came out was a strangled cough. Nico paused on the other end. "What did you say?"

"Nothing," Percy said. "Was there a reason for this phone call?" _Or was it just to bother me? _As far as he knew, Nico didn't have friends. _I don't _do_ people,_ he would say, voice drenched in sarcasm. Percy and Annabeth had always thought that amusing, considering the amount of women Nico would traipse past them in the wee hours of the morning. They never said anything about it to him, aside from the all-too-expressive snorts and/or smirks over the steam of their morning coffee.

Nico sighed in exasperation. "They split up."

Percy's back stiffened. Nico had been put on surveillance for the diner, eavesdropping for clues and, if necessary, any dangers. The only concerns were two federal agents, apparently taking an interest in the incident. Percy didn't like the notion at all—but Annabeth was adamant that fleeing would attract attention, and Nico, irritatingly, agreed.

"Where?" Percy demanded.

"The tall one—"

"They're _both_ tall," Percy reminded him.

"Right." He could picture Nico thinking. "Um, Shaggy went to check out Katrina's. Ken Doll's on his way to Ella's."

"Does Annabeth—?"

"She knows," Nico cut in. "I put her following him."

Percy felt his face harden, and his grip around the phone tightened. "Nico," he warned.

"What?" A tone of defensiveness entered the younger's tone. "You're got to stop fucking worrying about her, man. She's _Annabeth_."

"I know that," Percy snapped. _I'm married to her, aren't I? Well, almost._ But he didn't say that. He was suddenly aware of the intern's eavesdropping and stepped away, lowering his voice. "It's just that…" He ran his fingers through his hair. "I think she's gotten used to being normal, you know? Making dinner, having a normal job, acting like our mother."

Nico made an indignant noise at the back of his throat. "She _kills_ most of our dinner, her job was _exterminating_ her coworker, and she's _always_ acted like our mother," he countered. "Stop being so protective. She'll gut you like a fish." Had the kid been standing in front of him, Percy would have punched him for the bad pun—and the insufferable little chuckle he allowed himself afterward.

Percy rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the update." But as he was about to lower the phone he heard Nico's, "Wait!"

"What?" he asked, annoyed.

"Look, Percy..." He could visualize Nico chewing on his bottom lip in indecision. "There's something really, really wrong here."

All joking was gone from his voice, and Percy froze. "What do you mean?"

Nico paused. "It's not really an over-the-phone kind of conversation," he admitted. "I'll swing by to pick you up in your office in an hour or two and we can rendezvous with Annabeth at the university." (She'd been determined to enroll in as many classes as possible, insisting that "witness protection doesn't warrant lack of education.")

"And where are you going in the meantime?" He would never admit it but he rather liked how authoritative he sounded.

"I've got some research to do."

* * *

He couldn't say he was all that surprised when he leaned down to inspect the quality of an open reservoir and a face was looking back at him. He hadn't thought of it happening that particular day, but he couldn't deny that every time he looked at open water he was half-waiting for someone to be there. That was just the way it was. So there was a long beat of silence between him and the doe-eyed naiad in the water.

Tentatively, at receiving no word from him, she poked her head out. He glanced around; his team of three wasn't looking in his direction. And the little thing was hidden under the dock, where no one could see her. Thank gods she was smart. "I asked not to be disturbed," he said quietly.

"Apologies, my lord." She was a beautiful one—well, they all were. If water nymphs were human women, she'd be a teenager compared to the matured form of the adult Oceanids. Of course, naiads tended to avoid Oceanids at all costs. When he'd discovered this, he found it quite funny; it was like the Oceanids were queen bees and the naiads were their victims. _Like high school,_ he joked. Annabeth had been quick to interrupt with an unnecessary explanation of water nymph culture and societal structure and whatnot, but who's to say he listened?

"Percy," he corrected. _Lord_ was a title that never suited him. He had been telling his father's wards for years, but they seemed to refuse the idea of addressing him as a commoner. Bastard or not, he was still the son of the king, no matter how many tantrums his royal, _legitimate_ (he was never allowed to forget the latter) brother threw. The naiad lowered her eyes in embarrassment. He sighed inwardly. "What is it?"

"A message," she blurted, thrusting something out at him. "Forgive the intrusion, my lord. I was told it's…urgent."

He thanked her with what he hoped was a warm smile and permitted her to disappear, most likely hiding away before anyone could really discover her. Although, if she truly was a messenger of his father's, she would never be touched.

The smile dissolved as he looked down. With careful, probing fingers, he turned the conch shell over in his hands. It was a thing of perfection, pale like ivory and smooth like a pearl. He hesitated to use it. Conches tended to be his brother's token, and conjuring Triton was not a promising notion.

But if it wasn't Triton's, it was Poseidon's, which was a more worrying possibility. Gods did not simply check on their children. They summoned them, or smote them, or sometimes warned them if they were feeling particularly merciful. Bottom line, whatever it was, he already knew he didn't want to be a part of it.

Still, as he made his way back to headquarters, he contemplated answering. Poseidon was one of the more benevolent gods. Percy could, to an extent, trust him. And he knew that Poseidon's agreement carried weight, if not complete truth. He wouldn't contact Percy unless it was important. So, against better judgment, he shut himself in his office and slowly raised the conch to his ear to listen.

It was only half an hour before Nico was due to collect him, anyway.

* * *

"Are you _stupid?_"

All he could do was hold in the laugh; how many times had he asked himself that over the years? Millions. Jumping off bridges, running headlong at creatures he had no chance of conquering, mouthing off to all-powerful things that could very well squash him like a bug. But he only gave a halfhearted shrug. His friend seemed to inflate, not unlike a blowfish. Shrouded within his black jacket with his hood drawn up around his thin face, he looked absolutely ridiculous.

"No," Percy replied calmly.

The cousins stood conversing as quietly as they could in the parking lot of the local university, though volume was clearly becoming an issue. Percy glanced around for the tenth time to be sure there were no eyes were on them. There weren't. Nico had taken care to manifest in a corner conveniently shaded by multiple planters, where Annabeth was sure to find them, but others weren't. It wasn't invisibility, but it was enough.

Nico was glaring fit to kill. "You answered the call!" he accused. "They know where we are now."

Percy felt his mouth twitch. Wizened as he liked to think he was, Nico's naivety tended to make impromptu appearances at times like this, leaving Percy to be the voice of reality. It wasn't a good role for him. _Did you really think they ever lost us?_ he wanted to sneer. But he didn't. "They won't come here," he said instead. He ran a knuckle under his chin in thought. "They gave me their word."

"A word is not a promise. And you know they like loopholes."

He got to his feet from the low bench he'd been seated on at the tone. "They won't come here." Standing, he was significantly taller than Nico, who was still an ignorant eighteen to Percy's authoritative twenty-two. Well, _ignorant_ wasn't a word you applied to Nico. _Wayward_ or _reckless_—maybe. Percy did have to admit Nico knew what he was doing. Most of the time.

Ignoring the fact that he was the height equivalent to Percy's nose, Nico still retained the ability to be unnerving with his flat eyes, a brown so dark they were almost black. "How can you know that?"

"Boys." They turned to see Annabeth standing a ways away from them, as though she'd stopped mid-step. She looked displeased, her nostrils flared slightly. Quickly, the two stepped away from each other at the sight of her, clearly unwilling to be disciplined by her of all people. Her bright eyes darted from one irritated face to the next. "No fighting," she warned. "Or I'll have to break it up."

"Fine."

"Whatever."

Her expression turned amused at the simultaneous responses. Tucking her book to her chest and securing her bag over her shoulder, she approached them more surely. She hugged Percy. She was cool from the air conditioning inside her classroom, and though she smelled like clay and chalk, her lemon soap was still distinguishable. He allowed the scent to calm him.

Annabeth took Percy's unoccupied seat. "They won't come here," she reiterated to Nico from the bench. The guy looked as though he were using all his will power not to roll his eyes, which caused her to arch a brow. "We asked for some distance, and they gave it to us." She reached up to touch his elbow, an action he jerked away from.

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Can we just talk about what we need to talk about?" he grumbled.

"If you'd like to share with the class," Percy agreed. He ignored the glower shot his way and grinned encouragingly.

"You know those badges King Kong and G.I. Joe had were fakes," Nico said after a moment's pause. It wasn't a question, and the other two nodded.

Annabeth plunked her things down beside her. "They were close to perfect," she commented appreciatively. Only Annabeth could be appreciative of something like fake identification. "I haven't seen any that good since…" She trailed off, but Percy could have easily finished the sentence for her. _Since the Stolls._

"What are you saying?" he said aloud. "You think they're Hermes kids?"

Nico shook his head. "Their auras aren't like that," he disagreed. "They're not half-bloods. Of any kind."

Annabeth was frowning deeply. "They can't be gods. There wasn't a presence."

Over the years, they found it easier to sense an immortal amongst them. Back in the old days, Percy usually couldn't identify gods until the ominous speeches and the attempts to eliminate him. Now it seemed ludicrous to miss the overbearing weight of divinity in the room, the faint scent of pure power burning in the air.

"They're mortal," Nico said. "Definitely." He chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Their names are Sam and Dean Winchester."

Nico's research had never been anything but fruitful. "And you know them," Percy said. Perhaps, judging by his girlfriend's warning look, he should have dialed back on the accusing tone of voice, except he couldn't help it. Nico was his cousin, his friend, his _ward_ (as Annabeth had once put it), but gods knew his track record wasn't clean. Nico lied. He lied about everything, as far as Percy could tell.

"Yes." The answer was slow and halting, which did not help Percy's suspicions. Nico bit down on a thumb. "Look, it's complicated. Basically…" He hesitated. "I saw them in hell."

The word seemed foreign and unfamiliar. He could feel his face slowly scrunching into the confused expression he was so famous for back home. He glanced at Annabeth, but she didn't appear to understand any more than he did.

A small dent appeared between her brows. "The Fields of Punishment," she stated.

"No." Nico extracted the thumb from his mouth, looking perturbed. "_Hell_. Like…fiery pits, endless screams, torture," he paused. "Satan."

"Hell," Percy repeated, skeptical.

"I used to do a lot of…exploring," Nico admitted, and it struck Percy like a ton of bricks. All those months he would slip away, dissipate into the shadows; all those times Percy would glance into the blackness and wonder if it was empty, little Nico was having his own adventures in the dark. It was such a strange idea, and yet it made such sense, that Percy had to shake himself back into the conversation. "I found holes and rips—the occasional door," he shrugged. "I'm small, no one notices me."

"You're saying you walked into hell." Even for their world, it was difficult to believe. And Percy was finding himself in the same position he'd been in nearly ten years before, staring with innocent eyes at an ancient centaur who _still_ knew so much more than he did. He struggled to form coherent sentences. "As in," he said carefully, "_heaven_ and hell? As in, capital-G God? As in the God we all threw away since _our_ gods?"

"Percy…" Annabeth had her thinking face on, which could only mean some inkling of this was true. But it couldn't be, could it? "There is no solid proof that says multiple theologies can't coexist."

There it was again: her cool, unconditional expectation that her rationale lit the way to automatic truth. She was right, of course—she always was, but he really fucking wished she wasn't. Next thing they'll be telling him there are angels living in cloud houses and Jesus walking the earth. He backtracked on the joke and prayed that wouldn't actually come true.

Annabeth was still talking. "…remember Sadie and Carter?"

He did. A petite girl with multicolored stripes in her caramel hair and a tall skinny boy with brown skin. Ridiculous children with ridiculous claims. "Yeah," he affirmed. "The psychos."

"Maybe they weren't psycho," she persisted. "Maybe, they were telling the truth."

He wanted to laugh. Egyptian gods? A giant snake monster due to eat the sun at any minute? "That's insane."

He couldn't tell whether it was exhilaration or the sun's reflection in Annabeth's eyes when she leaned forward. "Is our world any less insane?"

And just like that, his mind started arguing with itself. If God exists, why has there been so much shit flying? If God exists, what the hell has he been doing? If God exists, what else does? He held his tongue; this was neither the time nor the place. "Fine." It felt heavy in his mouth. He did the best to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, "If you saw them in hell, how are they here?"

"That's the thing." Nico wet his lips with a single flick of his pale tongue. "They die, but they don't stay dead. They _reek_ of resurrection, of being raised over and over." He made a face. "I almost forgot that smell."

"What, you've met them before?" This came from Annabeth, whose eyes were wide.

The boy looked uncomfortable as he realized the slip-up. "Once. A long time ago. They thought," he cleared his throat, "they thought I was a witch."

A full laugh burst from Percy's mouth, and the death glare he received was enough to kill him. "They thought what?"

"A witch." He wrinkled his nose. "I don't blame them; I would think I'm a witch too if I was a hunter."

"Witches aren't—" The chuckle died in his throat. "…real," he faltered. But Nico was looking at him with an amused expression, and Annabeth was biting her lip. _"Seriously?"_

"Look," Nico sighed, "in our world, we have empousai and dracanae, hellhounds and hydras. In theirs, they have angels, demons, ghosts, werewolves, you name it." One black-clad shoulder rose and fell in a shrug. "They're like…pests."

"And they hunt them as a profession?" Annabeth murmured.

Nico frowned. "They're not just hunters. They're _the_ hunters." At the blank looks he was given, he ran his hands through his coarse black hair, pushing back his hood. The light made him look sallow, with dark circles under his eyes.

"I've kept tabs on them, on and off. Done some digging. And as far as I can see, they're your worst nightmare's worst nightmare. Mama monsters tell baby monsters to behave or the Winchesters will come kicking down your door. Demons would rather exorcise themselves than cross these two. Legend has it they literally grabbed the Devil and God's most powerful archangel and shoved them in a cage for _eternity_. And if they find out a single cell of us isn't human, they'll drag us down to the underworld and feed us to Cerberus—and maybe kill him too, if they're feeling extra violent that day."

The silence was palpable. "So we run," Percy said. His hand curled into a fist by his side, and he resisted the urge to step closer to Annabeth. He didn't look at her this time. He had hoped…gods, he had hoped to keep her out of it for a little while longer. The year they had was peaceful, quiet.

But now he could see: it had been granted to them, not taken of their own accord. The only reason they got out was because they were _allowed_. How stupid of him, to think they could escape so easily. A year. He'd dreamed of making it ten, twenty, fifty. Another dream flushed down the toilet.

Nico's answer was tight-lipped. "In the middle of all this? They'll know."

"No," Annabeth objected firmly. She looked at them both, remarkably at ease. "We're invisible. We stay here. We pretend a little longer, and a little harder. And we hope to the gods they don't catch on."

Nico vanished mere seconds after dropping them off at home, looking more sullen than usual. Gods knew what he went off to do, and Percy didn't want to partake in that knowledge. He moved toward the stairs, intent on sinking into bed and never waking up. Annabeth touched his hand, stopping him instantly. "What was this about a message from your dad?" She looked up at him under long eyelashes, eyes wide and owlish in a sense he could only apply to her. "What did he say?"

He was glad he had an excuse to look away as an engine reared loudly somewhere in the street. "Not much," he replied through squinted eyes, not quite meeting hers. "Just telling me to be careful."

And somehow he knew, by the spark in her eyes as she turned away, she simply didn't believe him.

* * *

**I'm so horrible with suspense, but I'm working as fast as I can, I promise. Hang in there x**


	5. Chapter 5

**More to come soon, hang in there x**

* * *

**5/Sam**

A pause pulsed in the room as the hunters stared blankly at the trench-coated angel.

"Okay," Dean said lamely. He had a smear of grease across his mouth that he'd missed, and he was still holding a large drumstick. "So talk."

Sam tried to bite back his irritation at Dean's blatant disregard of tact. (He was, after all, Dean.) He rose to his feet slowly. "What's going on, Cas?" he implored. "We, uh," he glanced at Dean, "we thought you were looking after Fred."

"I was," Castiel replied, albeit impatiently. "He didn't require much of my attention; he was…very absorbed in his television." Then, with a note of pride, "I've been helping others."

"That's great, buddy," Dean said, clearly sorry Sam asked (though, thankfully not so clearly that Cas could detect it). "You wanna explain the visit? You don't exactly do social hour."

If Sam didn't know any better, he would have thought the solemnity of Castiel's face grew more severe. "Yes, of course. I've been informed something has been stolen."

The brothers exchanged looks. "Another weapon on the loose?" Dean inquired warily.

"No," Cas said bluntly, to the others' surprise. "The weapons of the Lord have been accounted for and secured accordingly. This is something outside of heaven. Something that needs to be _contained_." The tone of his voice planted an unpleasant feeling in Sam's gut.

"There's nothing here," he countered. "No omens, no freak accidents, no voices from the sky or people killing in the name of God."

"Just a couple of murders," Dean added. "What's been taken, Cas?"

The angel was turned towards the table, tilting his head in that bemused way only he could seem to master. "Something ancient, and very powerful." He reached out—for the bucket of chicken, Sam thought at first—and picked up a glittery object. A very large coin.

Dean _mmhd_. "Thing's called a drachma. It's a Greek coin."

Sam stepped over to take a closer look. "It looks like a cookie," he remarked.

Dean nodded in agreement. "Weird, innit?" He looked at Castiel. "That the thing you're looking for?"

Castiel was frowning in puzzlement. "No." He turned the gold circle in his fingertips. "Where did you find this?"

"At the waitress's. Uh…" He snapped his fingers. "Annabeth. She had a bowl full of crap like that. Why?" But when the brothers looked up, Castiel was gone.

Sam exhaled slowly, shrugging in response to Dean's irritated expression. "Guess he had somewhere to be," he suggested. Dean didn't answer. With little else to do, he turned his back to head for the bathroom, intent on a shower.

He purposefully ignored Dean's petulant mutter of, "Friggin' angels."

* * *

An hour later, Castiel still hadn't returned. Sam was looking over the photographs of Katrina Hamilton's apartment for the thousandth time, and Dean was hard at work researching what kind of creature she might have been—because, they reasoned, no ordinary diner waitress keeps a fridge full of bodies.

The sheriff had called to report the scene earlier and—rather forcefully—assure the two agents there was no reason to look into it, a silent request to which they had no problem. "We can handle this," the man insisted.

Dean broke the silence with a huff of frustration from his spot at the table. "Anything?" he grumbled.

Sam didn't bother glancing up. "No."

He groaned. "Look, whatever this bitch was, it looks like somebody did us a favor and ganked her for us. Otherwise she'd be dropping dudes, right?"

"Unless she's underground," Sam murmured, scrolling through picture after picture. He squinted. "Whatever the case, she wasn't alone."

"What are you talking about?"

Sam turned the laptop to face Dean, who tipped back in his chair to get a closer look. "There was more than one person living here. Look: extra beds, fully stocked cabinets, more than one pair of shoes at the door."

Dean frowned. "Sheriff Grumps said Katrina was living on her own."

"Then he was lying," Sam reasoned. "Or, whatever they were, they're really good at hiding."

"She's not hiding."

Both men jerked violently at the sudden voice; Dean nearly tipped himself over, and Sam's laptop went flying off his lap.

"Dammit, Cas!" Dean cursed.

Castiel completely disregarded the chastisement. "She's dead," he continued. He thumped a jar on the table. "Those," he pointed, "would be her ashes. Recovered from the diner."

Dean scooted back considerably, distaste written all over his face. "Dude," he complained.

Sam unfolded his long legs from the bed and approached. The jar was small, not enough to contain a full body's worth of ashes. His brow furrowed in thought. Only a truly paranoid hunter would not only salt-and-burn, but scatter. "What the hell was she?"

Castiel was carrying an armful of odd objects. A sealed jug of something, an engraved bowl, some dried leaves. He placed them all on the table as he spoke. "Her kind are known as empousai, a strictly female race of creatures. Greek," he tacked on as an afterthought. Then, "They normally don't emigrate."

"Empousai?" Dean sounded out the unfamiliar word with disgust.

Cas glanced up at him. "Succubae. Carnivorous jaws, mismatched limbs. They mainly prey on men." He paused. "Your modern form of vampires is descendant of them."

A sudden realization struck Sam. "That explains Brune," he mused aloud. "If you're picking off stray men under the nose of a whole town, what better place to hide out than that diner?"

Dean's lip curled in a childlike grimace. "And what's all this?" he said in regards to Castiel's collection.

The angel uncorked the jug and poured a clear liquid in one fluid motion. "I need to make a call," he answered absently. A few crumbs of the dried plant and a drop of blood followed into the engraved bowl. He mumbled a few nonsense words over the mixture.

"What kind of call are we talking about?" Dean asked warily.

Castiel did not look up. "An urgent one." Then, to the brothers' surprise, he picked up the bowl and flung the liquid into the air.

"Cas—" Sam began to exclaim, but then he realized that nothing had hit the carpet. The liquid stood suspended midair like a beaded curtain. Light danced across the shining droplets in kaleidoscopes of colors, like rainbows.

"Collect call," a woman's voice emitted from the mist. "What is your manner of payment?"

"Coin of your own," Castiel replied. "And…angel's blood." He raised his arm, and Sam saw that he held Dean's mysterious coin in his slim fingers. A single stroke sent it spinning into the mist, but it did not hit the wall behind it.

Sam sent Dean an incredulous look. His brother shrugged. He didn't seem to understand a bit of this either, which left them stranded on how to deal with it. There wasn't much they could do to stop Castiel.

"Payment accepted," the woman said mechanically. "Who would you like to reach today?"

He could have sworn Castiel straightened up. "Show me your mistress," he commanded.

Sam blinked hard. The light was shifting across the mist, changing, turning to show a…picture. He could see white pillars, marble floors, and what looked like gold engraving in a large hall. The base of a humongous statue was stationed just in view of the mist, but it was void people. He was moments from asking for some kind of explanation when sound exploded around them, like someone had just unmuted a television.

"I demand _justice_!" a woman was screaming. "I will not sit by and abide thieves!" She sounded magnified, as if on a microphone.

"Are you sure you didn't simply misplace it?" a second woman asked tiredly. "Need we recall the scepter incident?"

"I _feel_ it, you simpering fool! Stolen!"

Voices, screaming and not, overlapped in a cacophony of arguing while Dean and Sam stood bewildered as all hell. Dean's mouth was hanging open slightly, and Sam didn't blame him. What the hell was going on?

A face obscured the screen abruptly. A woman, who stared intently at the three with a worried expression before swiping her hand across the mist—and it was gone, just like that.

"So it's true," Castiel muttered.

"Hey Cas?" Dean said lightly. "You feel like filling us in here? We're a bit slow on the uptake if you can't tell." His voice was laced with sarcasm, but Castiel didn't appear to notice—or if he did, he didn't care.

Sam rubbed at a corner of his mouth. "Who was that?"

The look in Castiel's eyes indicated he was thinking very hard. "An old friend," he answered. "Iris, one of the pagan deities. She helped carry messages for me during the war in heaven."

Another look passed between the brothers, this time of worry. A war buddy? It couldn't be good. But then again, what was? Sam's eyebrows knitted together. "And? What was stolen? What's all this about?"

Cas finally looked him in the eye with his intimidating gaze. "The apples of the Hesperides."

"The bananas of what?" Dean echoed.

"Wait." Sam racked his brain. "That's high school stuff. Belonged to the Greek gods, right?"

"Nerd," Dean muttered, as he always did. Sam ignored him.

Castiel was nodding. "Yes," he said in answer. "Hera, their queen. What you have just seen was the Olympian throne room."

"What was all that damn racket, then? Domestic dispute?" Dean chuckled to himself.

"The Olympians were notorious for arguing," Sam said thoughtfully. "If something went missing, it'd be chaos."

"Which means we have all the less time to find the apples and return them," Castiel intervened. "We should—"

"Hold on, hold on." Dean held up his hands. "We still got a murder on our hands. Murders," he corrected. "Are we abandoning that for _fruit?_"

"Katrina murdered Brune," Sam offered. To be perfectly honest, he said it more to irritate his brother than to actually aid him. But that was little-brother temperament talking.

Dean gave him an exasperated look that said,_ you're not helping_. "Then who iced Katrina, huh?" He looked from one man to the next in rhetorical question. "Am I the only one wondering that? There's no sign of a single hunter in this crap town but us; who would have the knowledge and the equipment to survive a—whatever she's called?"

"Dean." Castiel stepped towards him. He was using what Sam liked to think of as his _angel voice_. The low, grim tone that rang with the kind of urgency that demanded not only your attention, but your cooperation. It was difficult to refuse, especially for Dean. "The apples must be found and contained. I don't even know how many have been taken; if some Neanderthal stumbles across them and figures out how to use them properly, it could be mass warfare in mere hours. They are protected by a thousand spells, some of which I cannot get past. I need your help."

Dean's shoulders slackened slightly. A sign of giving in. "Okay," he said quietly. "Okay, Cas. We'll help." Sam nodded in agreement.

Castiel's fist, which only then did Sam notice had been clenched by his side, unfurled. "My thanks. The apples are veiled. But by that coin, I can tell is that they lie here in this town." He looked at Dean. "The presence of that coin indicates that your hunter, whoever they are, is here as well."

Dean rubbed his face with both hands. "Okay. You…check up on spells and whatnot. Sam and I can do some digging." He slid two thumbs into his pockets. "We _will_ find them, Cas."

Something about that promise seemed to visibly comfort the angel.


	6. Chapter 6

**In answer to everyone's questions: this would be _after_ everything currently happening in the Heroes of Olympus series. (I haven't even read most of them, I'm so awful; but I really just miss the old days minus the new kids.) Percy and Annabeth are both full-grown adults; I've placed them at the ages of twenty-two, twenty-three, and Nico is eighteen. Also, Sam and Dean should be considered around their current ages in season 8 (thirty and thirty-four).**

**As far as the trio's reasons for isolating themselves, everything will be revealed. And all six will meet _very_ soon, believe me.**

**Here's the new chapter for you, hope you enjoy it! x**

* * *

**6/Nico**

When he and Percy stepped out of the shadows, it was dark. Moonlight seeped through the needle-like leaves of the trees, casting eerie silhouettes onto the forest floor. To him, they looked like fingers. Save for the midnight stirring of animals in the black, it was silent.

His fingers sought the hilt of his sword for reassurance. Even strapped to his hip under the cushion of his jacket it was cold to the touch, as it always was. Colder than the air around them, which was no summer breeze.

The low tones of Percy's voice sounded like a shout in the quiet though it was little more than a whisper. "You sure about this?" His eyes looked more blue than green in the dim light. In his fingers Riptide twirled back and forth in pen form, like a nervous tick.

"Pretty sure," Nico replied. Percy's eyebrows rose in skepticism, but thankfully he decided not to retort. They stalked through the trees, footsteps silent, hardly breathing. Nico strained to catch every sound, every flutter of movement. This was what he hated about hunting: the waiting.

However, it wasn't long before a stick snapped in the distance. Both men tensed. There was only silence when they surveyed the trees, but they weren't alone. Nico unsheathed his sword, grateful for the soft light illuminating their surroundings as Percy uncapped Riptide. The most prominent sound was his heartbeat in his ears.

His head snapped to the left just in time to see a dark shape barreling out of the darkness at breakneck speed. On pure instinct he took a swing, only to hear a deafening _clang_. He froze in confusion, and found himself being batted aside like a rag doll. He skidded hard, scraping a good chunk of skin off his hip, and then rolled to his feet with sword in hand.

Percy was having a real contest with the thing. He was dodging every attack and forging his own, though he wasn't getting many hits in. The creature was low to the ground, to its advantage large feathery wings as powerful as wings could get, and a bronze set of beak and talons. Something long and thick was swinging almost lazily behind it—a tail.

Come to think of it, those talons might've gotten a taste of him. His fingers sought the wet warmth blooming under his clothing and he cursed. He felt no pain, but that wouldn't last long. Mustering his energy, he sank into the ground and resurfaced under its feathery belly. His sword prevented it from taking another breath.

The dead weight was quickly rolled off of him by a struggling Percy (who clearly did not work out as much as he claimed). He was panting, and there was a deep laceration running down the length of his arm. "You okay?"

Nico gasped for air. "Yeah," he managed. "At least we won." They managed to share a moment of breathless laughter for a moment before Percy's voice cut off and he stiffened. Nico struggled to get to his feet as they heard the collective sound of a hundred bowstrings being drawn taut.

"Great," Percy muttered.

An exasperated sigh emitted from the thicket. "Nobody fire!" a girl's voice called. "It's only the prince of seaweed." A figure pushed into the clearing—tall, blonde, and armed. Her thick lips were twisted into a smirk.

Nico pursed his lips at the blatant sarcasm. "Hello Phoebe," he greeted calmly.

She gave him one of her grudgingly appreciative looks (her version of a smile). "You stole our kill, your highness."

"You're welcome."

"What's this?" a second voice demanded. Leaves crunched loudly, and branches gave way to someone Nico hadn't seen in a very long time.

Thalia Grace, unsurprisingly, looked almost exactly the same. Her black hair had grown, no longer spiky, and still bore the silver tiara marking her status. The camo pants and parka Nico came to know had vanished in favor of leggings, a tunic, and a fur-lined cloak—not doubt a uniform change done without her permission. (Thinking on it, Nico did recall hearing about a raging argument between the divine twins on whether or not to return "classical." Artemis hadn't seemed to care, but Apollo was adamant that the old days were the better days.) Her face was just as young as the day he first met her. She was grinning. "Well, Dumb and Dumber, right on my doorstep."

"Shut up," Percy scoffed, and dragged her into a hug. "You're so short," he said to her hair.

"You're so tall," Thalia's voice was muffled in Percy's jacket. She shoved him off. "Where's Annabeth?"

"Home," Nico cut in. He didn't bother smiling at her when she turned, but he was fairly surprised to see she made the effort. "Hey, Princess Pinecone."

She hugged him too, even more surprisingly. "Death Breath. Why are you interrupting my hunt?"

"We brought you a little gift," Percy gestured to the creature at their feet. "Since when are griffins back in the country?"

"Since it's gotten a little crowded back home," Thalia said wryly. She eyed the thing. "And we don't need charity."

"Take the pelt, Grace," Nico rolled his eyes.

Thalia pursed her lips. After a moment, she snapped her fingers. A few girls rushed forward and carried the creature out of sight, mindful of the talons. "Wanna answer my question?"

"We have a favor to ask," Percy said, glancing at Nico.

The daughter of Zeus quirked an eyebrow. "I'm listening."

* * *

When a team of seven was dispatched into the trees later that night, the two demigods were not with them. At the lieutenant's insistence, they agreed to allow her to handle the situation as she pleased. This was in part because of their exhaustion, more because neither had the patience to argue.

Thalia was confident that the creature couldn't get far in this neck of the woods. "Too many ways to get caught," she remarked, but Nico wasn't so sure. It wasn't often you stumbled across monsters living so domestically, so without orders. Every creature was someone else's servant. Empousai happened to work for Hecate, goddess of magic; yet, these ones didn't show an ounce of loyalty towards her. That meant they had either escaped or been freed. Both explanations were…highly improbable.

Nico wasn't so confident. Glancing across the ring of tents, he could see that his cousin was having similar thoughts. His brow was knitted low over his green eyes, and Riptide was being flipped from finger to finger absently. He didn't appear to feel the girl stitching his skin together, despite the lack of anesthesia. Nico was definitely aware of the burning pain in his shoulder. The Hunter patching him up was a lot rougher than necessary in her quest to extract the bit of bronze in his flesh.

He was itching to leave. The plan was to drop Thalia a line, then go home. That's what he thought, anyhow. Percy seemed to have different ideas, which Nico did understand. He would want to see this through to the end, no matter how skilled Thalia's troop was.

The truth was the younger demigod misliked Hunters. They were all utterly beautiful—the result of eternal youth and prolonged exposure to their mistress's divinity—and equally as stony. If they had their way, he'd be turning on a spit over the fire as a snack for their wolves. It was a rude awakening for him the first time he entered camp since Bianca. Male children were gray areas for Hunters; not quite pariahs yet, in their eyes. He hadn't know that; he remembered being cold and scared and without a mother, and he remembered the Hunters being kind. But he was ten years old then, he'd had Bianca. Now, he was not so naïve, and he was more or less alone.

A small clearing of the throat made him look up. His healer had finished. She was one of the younger girls, around the age of thirteen (though in reality he had no way of telling how old she really was). She looked displeased at being saddled with the unfortunate task of fixing him, much less addressing him. "The lieutenant has requested you and the other one in the main tent," she said, all-business. Hardly waiting for a response, she turned on her tiny heel and stalked off.

Nico had to shake Percy out of his stupor. "Perce, c'mon." His friend still looked troubled, but followed Nico without question, cradling his arm to his chest.

They had been in the main tent enough times to know that the doeskin spread on the ground was not for them, nor was the ornate bowl of fruit sitting atop it. Judging by the age of them, they had been waiting for Artemis's return for quite a while, Nico observed.

Thalia herself was sitting cross-legged with a hide covering her lap. She waved at a second, duller plate of fruit in the middle of the tent as they sat, indicating to help themselves. Percy took a handful of grapes. Nico touched nothing.

She eyed the younger with an expression he couldn't place. Maybe it was worry, or thoughtfulness, or a cross between the two. With her, he never could tell. "My girls are good trackers," she said to him. She popped a grape into her mouth. "You can have their skins, if you want." Nico did not recall her having such a wolfish grin.

"Pass," he replied. His eyes drifted to the untouched bowl of fruit. "Where's the silver lady?"

He was quick to catch the slight turndown of Thalia's mouth. "Probably still on Olympus with the others." She was careful to keep her tone light, a fact that did not go unnoticed. Percy flicked up a dark eyebrow in silent question; Nico raised and lowered a shoulder as an _I don't know_. She rolled another grape in her fingers with more force than necessary. It was squashed.

"What do you mean, _still?_" Percy asked.

The grape was released from its torment as Thalia blinked. "You don't know?" Her eyes flicked from one man to the other. "You don't know," she repeated, a realization this time.

An iron fist curled around Nico's stomach. _Out of the loop_ was an understatement at this point. When they asked to be left alone, their request had been honored, but it never should have gone this far. This was something _big_, something they never should have missed. Even in what Annabeth liked to call _witness protection_.

"What's happening?" he demanded.

The Hunter's mouth hardened. "We're not exactly sure," she admitted. "Twelve went up to the 600th floor, none came down." She sat up. "Some think they're having a particularly long debate. The rest of us—me, Chiron, the Elders—we think they're having an emergency council."

The last time they had one of those, the human race had almost been wiped out. _That_ was an unfortunate Christmas. "For what?" Nico urged.

One silver-clad shoulder rose and fell. "Hell if I know. A threat, maybe. Or a big decision." She shook her head. "There's no way to know. Besides a couple of minors, they're the only ones in that throne room."

Nico's appetite was gone. "How long?" he asked.

"Thirteen days." Thalia's eyes were bluer than ever in the torchlight. "Needless to say, we're a little worried." She sank back into her pillows again. "I talked to Rachel a few hours ago; she's been trying to listen in through Apollo's ears."

"And?" Percy pressed.

She exhaled through her nose in exasperation. "It isn't easy to sneak into a god's brain unnoticed," she sniffed. Then relented, "She's gotten a few snippets here or there, not much. She thinks something's been stolen again."

Percy and Nico both opened their mouths for more questions, but were interrupted by the arrival of Phoebe. She clumped in, stooping to accommodate for the tent's lack of room for her high build. Her attire was stained messily with the remnants of her kill. She handed Thalia something with a gloved hand and whispered a few words to her. With a nod to the two men, she exited silently.

Thalia's expression was troubled. She rubbed at something in her fingers, staring at nothing for a second before she remembered she wasn't alone. "Caught and executed," she informed them. At the others' questioning gazes, she reached out and let a long gold chain dangle from her fingers. A small medallion was strung onto it. "They found this on one of the empousai. Went down screeching about apples." She snorted, but Nico was paying her no mind. He was tilting his head, peering at the trinket. It winked prettily at him in the torchlight—bronze, it looked like.

He took it from her silently. It was cool to the touch, which it shouldn't have been. Empousai burned as hot as their flaming hair; anything kept too close to their skin would boil. It was covered in a lattice work of markings. He recognized Ancient Greek among them, but most were languages he had never seen before.

Thalia was watching them study it. "Mean anything to you?" she asked.

"I'll be damned," Nico said to himself. He looked up at the other two. "This is a protection medal."

A shadow passed over Percy's face. "So they were working for someone."

Nico squinted closer at the medallion's surface. "Yes, but Hecate's sigil isn't here." He rubbed at the metal. Underneath all the etchings, there was a faint stamp. Very small, and very light. His eyes widened in realization. "It's a peacock."

The three of them stared silently at each other. Thalia shook her head. "No. No way." Her expression flickered. "Hera?"

Percy looked brooding and unhappy. "She's done worse."

Nico had to agree. "See but the thing is," he said, "this is incredibly powerful. If you had this, you'd be untouchable. Invisible to the gods, invisible to everyone." He looked at his friends, puzzled. "Why would she give this to an empousai?"

Thalia said, "You know, Rachel did hear one word for sure at the council. Apple."

A daunting look darkened Percy's features. "You don't think—?" He broke off. "_The_ apples?"

Nico hated to visit that option, but it made sense. The lightning of Zeus was a sword; this was an atomic bomb. Several atomic bombs, by the sound of it. It certainly was Hera's type of move to pull an investigation of her own on the side, right under the council's noses. And her number-one suspect would be… His breath caught when he reached the conclusion. Fearfully, he watched as Percy came to the same bottom line. The change in his expression was sudden and final. His fingers jerked, and he was scrambling to his feet. "We have to get to Annabeth," he threw to Nico over his shoulder, and then he was pushing his way out of the tent with the determination of a mad man.

Nico ran after him, leaving a worried Thalia with a quick, "We'll call you as soon as we can." He tugged his cousin back by the shoulder. "Percy, she's fine. The empousai are dead; I've been keeping tabs on her through the sha—" He was cut off by Percy seizing him roughly.

"Take me home," he ordered. His eyes were wild. _"Now."_

Percy's fingers were digging into his shoulders sharply, but Nico bit back a complaint. With little else to do, he drew them through the shadows, completely oblivious to what they were walking into.

* * *

**(Chapter 7 coming v soon, get ready.)**


	7. Chapter 7

**I went over this again and again and I still sort of hate the way it came out, but I figure it isn't going to get much better. I hope it's okay.**

**(Check below for my excuses and stuff)**

* * *

**7/Dean**

"You've got to be kidding me."

The angel stared at Dean in a comically frustrated fashion from across the table, the muscles under the skin of his jaw tight. "I am not…kidding you," he said, obviously perturbed by the unfamiliar term. Dean didn't break eye contact, but somewhere over Castiel's shoulder he caught sight of his insufferable brother smirking.

Dean looked down at the address scrawled on the paper in neat script. He had never seen Castiel's handwriting before. He supposed when you've got a brain personally engineered by God, you don't need to write much down. It was small and wavy, meticulous like a girl's would be. He met Cas's blue gaze again. "This is where Little Miss Sunshine lives." He sighed when he saw zero change in Castiel's expression. It was nothing but expectant. "Okay, Cas."

"Good," the man murmured. He picked up the discarded pen in his slender fingers and put the tip to the napkin. "In order for me to search the residence, you need to break the sigils keeping me out. There are not many with this kind of…rigor." He slid the napkin back to Dean, who saw only scribbles but took it anyway.

He tucked it into his jacket pocket as he shrugged it on. "We'll take care of it," he assured, scooping his keys from the table. "Any word from your buddies?"

"No," Castiel answered. A frown pulled at the corners of his mouth. "They'll have warded against me now. But I don't believe they're much closer to deciding on their next step."

Gods were as bitchy as they were irritating, and Dean didn't bet much on them coming to a decision soon either. "Let's keep it that way," he said. He caressed the key to his car with a forefinger as he thought. "We'll check out this place. You—"

"I'll keep vigil." With that serving as a farewell, Dean found himself looking at a vacant chair.

He closed his mouth on the rest of his sentence. Clearly the situation was getting the better of him.

* * *

Dean was careful to keep the engine's growling purr to a minimum as they pulled up to the Jackson house twenty minutes later. It was deserted enough that he had little concern about someone recognizing the Impala across the street, let alone the two men inside.

The Dodge in the driveway and the illuminating lights of the house signaled that it was, unfortunately, occupied. From where the brothers sat across the street, they could see no obvious angel proofing. Through a worn pair of binoculars, Annabeth Jackson could be seen pacing back and forth in front of the window, a phone pressed to her ear. She looked agitated.

Sam was gnawing on his bottom lip in the passenger seat. "Think she's a demon?"

Dean shrugged. A higher-level hellcat with connections would know the Enochian and Latin required in keeping the supernatural out. He reasoned that if Annabeth really clawed her way topside just to surround herself with humans, she'd have to be a hell of a lot smarter than the average demonic scum. Then again, he'd been fooled before.

Taking advantage of the silence, Sam spoke. "Alright, so I dug up some more on these apples. They pop up all over ancient lore—used for power plays, love spells, war, you name it. According to the old legends, if you saw one of these, you were nailed. You'd gouge your eyes out to hold one."

Castiel had told them as much. "Let's hope they're not in there, then." Dean checked the barrel of his shotgun, then slid it back in place with the reassurance that it was full. He eased up in the driver's seat to feel for the press of his flask and a handful of extra shells in his pocket. "You distract her, I'll hunt down the angel scratching." Sam nodded with little opposition. For this, Dean was grateful. He didn't have much of a desire to put himself in that house.

They had just split up at the walkway; Sam ducking to the flanks of the house, Dean heading for the door, when a shrill scream slashed through the silence. The brothers shared a single, panicked look before they leapt up the porch steps, kicking in the door with guns in hand. Sam darted in to check the first room—_empty_, he signaled. Dean swung around and barged into the kitchen to find Annabeth, pressed up against the counter. She gave a cry of surprise. She was white-faced; at her feet lay a shattered glass. She sputtered upon seeing him. _"Agent Charles?"_

"What? What is it?" He ducked past her with the safety off, checking the windows and the outer door. They hadn't been touched. He spun around to face her. She was cradling a hand to her chest, eyes as wide as saucers. Dean stepped toward her, perhaps a little more menacingly than he intended, because she stiffened a little. "What?" he demanded.

"I saw a spider," she muttered miserably.

Dean closed his eyes. Across the kitchen, he heard the heavy creak of Sam pausing in the doorway. Simultaneously (and with much exasperation), they stowed their guns away. Sam crouched to gather the larger pieces of the broken glass in his careful hands. "It's just a bug," he said amiably.

Annabeth stared at him as though he were an alien. A very large, very shaggy alien. Dean cleared his throat. "Mrs. Jackson, this is my partner, Agent Sheen."

Sam smiled up at her before standing, and Dean had to blink. His brother was undoubtedly a giant, but next to Annabeth he looked positively monstrous. She, in contrast, looked like a delicate doll. The look in her stormy eyes shattered that illusion. "Okay," she said. "And what the hell are you doing?"

Shit. He hadn't thought that one through. He opened his mouth to let the first thought in his head roll off his tongue, but Sam came to the rescue. "We're your protection detail," he blurted. He dumped the shards into a trash can Dean hadn't even noticed.

Annabeth's expression flickered. "Protection detail," she echoed.

"We have reason to believe Katrina's disappearance could be the work of a known serial killer," Sam said, and hell if he didn't know how to improvise.

"I don't even fit her profile," Annabeth muttered. The corners of her mouth turned down.

Dean smiled his most persuasive smile. "Well sweetheart, we aren't taking any chances." Clearly, the use of _sweetheart_ didn't go over well with her, but he ignored that. His attention was drawn instead to the red on her hands. "Are you hurt?" When he took her arm to examine the wound, she kept very still, as though he were a threat.

"It's just a nick."

It wasn't. Dean guessed she had cut herself on the glass. The resulting wound wasn't pretty. He leveled his gaze at her. "You got a first-aid kit?"

As he was dressing it, effectively keeping the potential demonic scum in one place, Sam caught his eye. The younger Winchester was standing in the doorway that led to the rest of the house. He raised his eyebrows, a question. Dean nodded affirmatively, and Sam disappeared.

Annabeth was looking at Dean with studious eyes. She didn't appear to be feeling any form of pain in her hand, very calm. "You really think someone's after me?" she asked quietly.

Dean ripped a piece of tape and used it to secure her bandage. "Hope not," he replied. He surveyed the kitchen. "Mind if I take a look around?" She shook her head, drawing her arm back to her torso. She seemed troubled; Dean didn't blame her. All the same, he made sure to keep one eye on her as he circled the immediate rooms.

Annabeth's kitchen seemed average enough. He checked each door and window; upon closer inspection, he found a small patch of scratches on the sill. Enochian. He scratched it out discreetly with a pocketknife. There was another on the front door, which he too marred. But there was no sign of sulfur, not on the floor or dusting cracks in the plaster walls or settled in corners of the windows. No scent, except for a beachy scent that made his nose itch. He returned to the kitchen to escape it. Like the walls of the living room, the fridge was dotted with photographs. The one closest to him featured a young Annabeth, and two dark-haired boys.

The taller one bore a not-so-coincidental resemblance to the man in Annabeth's photos; her husband Dean guessed. The shorter one looked strangely familiar… He squinted. The kid looked to be around twelve, thin and solemn. He was struck by a sudden memory: a dark graveyard, an angry ghost, a couple broken ribs and Sam bleeding on the ground. Most of all, a kid in black, no more than ten, who promptly burned the ghost away with a snap of his fingers.

_You have violated your contract_, he'd told the dead woman, in a voice like dead leaves. _You will report to the Fields of Punishment and answer for your crimes before the council._

It hadn't made a lick of sense to Dean, but that didn't stop him from collaring the kid and holding him down while Sam doused him with holy water. _Hey, asshole,_ he protested loudly. _I just saved your _life_._

Dean wasn't impressed. When he demanded a name, the boy looked indignant. _I'm Nico,_ he'd snapped, wriggling out of Dean's grip. _I'm Nico, and I'm _not_ a witch._ The way he disappeared into the shadows didn't do much to support his claim.

"Agent?" Annabeth's voice shook him from his thoughts. She was standing behind him with a glass of lemonade in one hand, innocent as a doe-eyed child. He took it and sipped absently. It tasted sweet, with a hint of something sour. Too much lemon juice and not enough sugar, probably. He tapped the photograph with his free hand. "Who's this?"

He felt her step closer. She didn't answer right away. "Peter," she answered finally. "My husband."

He had the urge to rub at his eyes, suddenly overcome by a sluggish wave of exhaustion. God, what he wouldn't give for a beer and a nice bed right now… "No," he said instead. "The other one." He was vaguely surprised at how thick his tongue felt in his mouth. How hard it was getting to focus.

"Oh," Annabeth said, surprised. "That's Nicholas. Nick."

Dean frowned, sensing something off. "Which is it?" he tried to say, but his head was starting to spin, and his muddled brain suddenly connected the dots. _The lemonade_. The glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the tile with a crash. "What did you—what the hell?" he started to slur.

"Endymion dust," her voice was distorted and her face was too. "You'll just take a nice, long nap."

"You…bitch…" He was unable to form words, but not unable to fight. He lunged for her, the sedative's effects slow in overcoming his coordination. She sidestepped him easily, deflecting his blows before her hand came swinging up in a sharp slap that sent him stumbling.

"Sam!" he shouted through a lead tongue. He caught her next blow and held onto her fist with a weakening grip while she wrangled with his arm. "SAMMY!" he roared.

His brother skidded into view. Unlike his brother, he seemed to understand the entire situation in a matter of seconds. He made to intervene, but Dean waved an arm wildly. "I godder!" he slurred. "Get the—" he faltered, then settled for flapping an arm like a wing. Thankfully, Sam got it. He sped away to hunt down the remaining Enochian and, hopefully, rescue Dean using a feathered friend.

Dean turned back to the fight, which he realized he was going to lose. He _harrumph_ed as Annabeth stole his air with a good punch to the sternum and one to the throat. He choked. She placed a hard kick to his knee, and he was falling. As his face met the cold tile floor, he found his mouth would no longer move. His eyes began slipping closed, and he panicked within the prison of his own body.

He watched helplessly as she snatched a backpack from an overhead cabinet (a pan clattered to the ground, barely missing Dean's nose) and made a beeline for the door.

Like Bigfoot in shining armor, his brother appeared in the doorway from nowhere. Annabeth skidded into him with a scream; quicker than Dean would ever give him credit for, he snatched up the ninety-pound girl before she could move.

Instead of kicking and screaming like Dean expected her to, she did her best to go boneless, almost managing to slip to the ground before Sam tightened his grip on her. Only then did she decide to really go for it. She threw the back of her head into Sam's nose, earning herself a muffled yelp. Then she flung her body weight forward, which combined with Sam's imbalance almost won her freedom. Well, maybe if Sam hadn't wrapped a very large arm around one leg to keep her trapped. "HELP!" she screamed. "HELP ME! PLEASE, I—"

A beige trench coat obscured Dean's view of her, and as Castiel quickly silenced her with a touch to the forehead, Dean's eyes finally slipped closed.

He was awoken by the feel of Castiel's cool touch banishing the delirium. Relief flooded him as feeling returned to his body. "Where the fuck were _you?_" he growled. He pushed to his knees, ignoring Sam's muffled snort. Annabeth was now strung haphazardly across the couch, as if she had been dumped there. She probably had. Her face was slack with unconsciousness. That made Dean feel better.

Castiel was cradling something in his arm, hidden by the bunched-up sleeve of his trench coat. Dean caught a glimmer of gold. "Securing the town. My apologies." Castiel raised Dean to his feet with a firm, one-handed grip. _My apologies._ Like he'd forgotten to pick up a carton of eggs.

Dean didn't bother to hide his glower, knowing Cas wouldn't pick up on it anyway. "You got the goods?" Castiel spared a glance down at the objects in his arms and nodded gravely. "Fantastic," Dean said. "Now you wanna explain what this is?" He waved a hand at Annabeth, cautiously guarded by Sam, who stood beside the couch.

Castiel turned his blue-eyed gaze on her. He tilted his head as if noticing her for the first time. Demeanor hardening, he strode over to her and sniffed delicately above her head. "Oh," he said in mild epiphany. He pulled back, regarded her for a moment. He stayed like that, grim and curious, before turning back to the inquisitive brothers. "You would call her a demigod in this language."

* * *

******Okay, so don't hate me but things didn't quite go as planned. I wrote out this entire scenario that I worked on and fiddled with and eventually gave up on in utter frustration, and when I went to type it out, it turned out to be much too long for just one chapter. So, I've had to split it into two—which means you'll have to wait a little longer for the final gathering. Sorry about that, but since it's all scripted out and whatnot, it shouldn't be as long of a wait this time. (Sorry again.)**

******About the drug Annabeth used on Dean: Endymion was a shepherd in the good old days of Greece where gods were still playing hooky on Earth. The Titaness Selene (moon Titan) fell in love with him, but worried that his lifespan wouldn't last. Having learned from her buddy Eos's mistake (look that up, it involves transformations gone wrong), she cast a sleeping spell on him so he would slumber forever but never age. She managed to have fifty daughters by him, all as pale and beautiful as their mother and as sleepy as their father. The dust causes a temporary paralysis**

******[Also, really quick: the mention of the Winchesters' first encounter with little Nico di Angelo (which should be placed somewhere in that months-long period after Nico ran away from CHB due to what he considered to be Percy's betrayal) was originally supposed to be a lot longer. I cut it out to be more efficient, but maybe I should just make it a companion piece or something? It'd be short; a one shot, but I don't know. Just a thought.]**


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry about the delay. Plot stuff, editing, reviewing. You know.**

**I forgot to mention (it was around 1am when I last updated) that chapter 7 and most of 8 is all happening _while_ Percy and Nico are with Thalia and the Hunters. Chapters 7 and 8 were actually meant to be one chapter, but like I said, it was too long. Hence, this. Sorry about the drawback. Anyway, I hope this is okay.**

* * *

**8/Sam**

Sam balked. "A Trickster?" He realized his hand was clamped too tightly on the couch for a person supposedly unbothered by the term. With a shifty glance at Dean, he eased up on it. The mention of Tricksters did not conjure up pleasant memories for him, and judging from the way Dean's left fist kept balling up, it didn't do much good for him either. Sam managed to keep his face smooth of any emotion.

Dean didn't bother. "You mean she's been fucking with us this whole time?" He was roaring it, but no one quieted him. He glared at both men, but evidently gave up. "I need a drink," he griped. Exchanging a glance, the angel and the hunter followed him into the kitchen, where he began rooting through the cabinets.

"She's not a Trickster," Castiel corrected. "She is technically half human."

Sam's fingers felt cold, and he tucked them into his armpits. "And half what?" He was curious rather than wary, which is more than can be said for Dean.

"Pagan," Castiel said, like it was obvious. "She smelled Greek."

"How can you smell Greek?" Dean asked from within the cabinet.

"Like goats and metal, mostly." He fixed the unconscious girl with an intrigued gaze through the doorway. "She's…very clever," he mused. "I haven't met one of them for a long while."

Dean snorted under his breath. Sam looked at him, a smile twitching his lips. "She took _you_ down," he pointed out. The look of sheer annoyance on Dean's face gave Sam a certain delight reserved for younger siblings only.

"She cheated," he grumbled. He turned back to the cabinets. "Alright, so why does she need the enchanted fruit from la-la land? Wouldn't that put her in hot water with mommy and daddy?"

Castiel was holding the apples very close to his body. He shifted, causing an apple to slip through his slackened grip and drop to the ground. It rolled near Sam, drawing with it the whole room's attention.

His first thought was that it seemed almost ordinary. Large (about the size of Sam's fist), and an ethereal shade of gold. A jolt shook Sam from head to toe. His brain scrambled, consumed by…something. He wanted it—no, needed it. He needed it more than he had ever needed anything in his life. More than water, more than air. More than his father's acceptance, his mother's life, Amelia's love. More than Dean's safety. That struck him as wrong; he stopped, and he suddenly realized he had started toward Castiel on numb feet, hands reached out for _just one touch_. He blinked to clear his head, and the apple was gone, this time stowed away safely out of side. Castiel was staring at him, blue eyes wide. The position of his right hand revealed his angel blade at the ready.

Sam righted himself. "Sorry." Behind him, Dean murmured a similar apology. He, too, had rushed at Cas.

The man frowned, nodded. "The apples still have a strong effect," he said, albeit uncertainly. "Yes, stealing these would draw a lot of attention from her family. She could have been planning to use them as leverage against them." He paused in thought. "Or perhaps she didn't know they were here."

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, right."

"Whatever the case," said Castiel, "I'll return her to the Olympians along with the apples, or it's likely they'll try for another war." He said _war_ as one might say _tantrum_. "Thank you both for your help. I—"

The angel's words were cut off by a loud crash. In an instant, all three were armed, and they quickly rushed in. Honesty, Sam half-expected to see Annabeth conscious and delirious, knocked over a lamp or something. This was not what he found.

The living room was holding three times the people it had had when they left it. One was ripping away the curtain to consider the Impala gleaming across the street. The other was crouched on the ground, marring the pretty hardwood floors with blood. It didn't even register that he was drawing a sigil until he slammed a palm to the blood with a slick slap. A blinding flash forced Sam's eyes closed, and when he opened them, Castiel was gone. With a shock, he realized that the apples themselves had been left behind, piled in a heap.

Quickly, he tore the nearest blanket from the couch and hid the apples from sight as he felt himself waver. This all occurred within the span of a few seconds. Or, about the same amount of time it took for every weapon in the room to find a target.

_Swords?_ If one weren't pointed at his vital organs he would've laughed. Who carries around swords? Well, he reasoned, evidently the man down the barrel of his gun did. He was still crouched low, his hands smeared crimson. Upon closer inspection, he was more boy than man, somewhere in his late teens. He was pale and clad in all black, with a hood drawn up around his face. When he shook it away to widen his vision, he revealed a thin face sporting dark circles beneath his flat eyes. Curiously, he didn't seem worried by Sam's massive stature, much less the situation. In fact, he almost looked…_enthralled_.

Dean's opponent was significantly older, though he was still a young man. Not military (the stance and poster were all wrong), but definitely trained. Dean had several inches and a hell of a lot more muscle mass on him, but he was still going to be challenge.

"Nico," Dean's opponent said abruptly, "is she hurt?" He spoke with the low tones of a man protecting a loved one. Sam assumed he was the husband.

The boy—Nico—casted Sam a dare of a glance before he stowed away his sword in a whirl of onyx and slid to the couch beside the unconscious girl. Sam's finger inched towards the trigger of the gun as Nico pressed a slim finger to the inside of Annabeth's wrist. Whether or not she was human, he wouldn't have her harmed.

"No," Nico announced. His eyes fell on the hidden apples. "Percy—"

"Get her out of here." Percy said it calmly, yet the mentality of his tone was anything but. Sam understood that, to an extent.

With a flick of his thumb the safety was off. "Hold your horses," Dean said. He gestured to the apples. "You wanna explain these, hot shot?"

Percy's expression flickered. His head snapped to the side and words flew from his mouth, but they weren't in English. Nico replied warily. Irritated, Percy barked something, but Nico seemed to be acting stubbornly.

"Hey!" Dean barked. "Let's keep this in English, okay? I don't care about your little war, or whatever you were cooking up with those." He jerked a finger over his shoulder at the apples. "But I sure as hell ain't gonna be blamed for it when your mommies and daddies decide they wanna start smiting people." The two exchanged a look, but no words. "So we're going to call back our buddy, and you're going to go with him quietly. Or there's going to be more blood on these floors, got it?"

Nico attempted to move towards the couch—and Annabeth—but was stopped by the sound of Sam's safety flicking off. He smiled, as one would smile at a puppy running into a glass door. "You might not want to do that," he advised coolly.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't," Sam retorted.

"There isn't one," Dean sneered. "And don't think I don't remember you, kid." Sam shot him a questioning look, to which he said, "St. Louis, circa '07. The little witch boy?" _Oh_. Sam stared at the boy with new eyes.

"It's too late," snarled Percy. "You took down all the enchantments—you know what that means? Nothing can keep them out; they're coming. And we aren't sticking around to get incinerated, so have fun."

Nico touched Annabeth on the forehead. Her eyes shot open with a gasp, and she sat up sharply as though electrocuted. With one look around the room, she seemed to register the situation very quickly. "Percy—" she began.

"_Nico." _Percy flung a hand out for Nico to grasp, ignoring his wife's protests. Sam was seconds away from squeezing the trigger and shooting the guy when a rumble tore through the house, sending them all staggering.

Sam was quick to keep his gun in check. "What the hell was that?" he demanded.

"That would be them," Percy said, "coming to kill us." Sam elected to disregard the vicious amount of accusation in his voice.

Nico suddenly vanished on the spot. Before anyone could react he reappeared, stepping through the wall like a doorway. He looked even grimmer than before. "They sent the bulls," he said. Sam was so baffled he couldn't even remember that he should probably shoot the boy. Melting into shadows? That was nothing short of witchy.

Annabeth was getting to her feet, somewhat unsteady. "They won't listen," she said to Percy.

"My dad—"

"Has no say," she finished. "He can't just stand up and say 'Perseus would never do such a thing' and then just fix it. Not if she's in charge."

"So we run," Percy said firmly. "We take the apples and we run."

Dean snorted. "You're not going anywhere. You think we're that stupid?"

"We've killed gods before," Sam said.

"We have to split up," Nico spoke suddenly. The other two whipped around to stare at him, indignant. He held up his hands. "If we stay here, we're not getting out alive. One of us goes with them, makes sure the package is delivered to the garden. The other two hold them off until we're safe."

Annabeth's nostrils flared. "Fine," she agreed. "I'll go. You two can hold them off longer."

"Hey!" Percy snapped. "Am I the only one for fleeing right now?" Clearly he wasn't happy about being ganged up on.

"It's our best shot," warned Nico.

"He's right." Though she didn't look happy about it.

Percy stared at Nico as though he were a dancing shark. "You want to send her off with the professional murderers? And just what, trust them?"

"We don't have a choice right now!" Nico shouted. "If you haven't noticed, we've got a whole herd of bronze bulls coming after us, and sorry, but one knife and a squadron of undead isn't gonna cut it! I don't like it any more than you do, but if we want to stay alive, this is what we have to do!"

"Hey, Marilyn Mansen," Dean waved his gun to grab their attention, "we haven't agreed to jack squat."

Sam joined in, "As far we're concerned, all we've got to do is haul your asses to the gods' front door and we're golden. Nobody said anything about a road trip."

"Do you know what a bronze bull _is?_" Annabeth demanded. Her eyes flashed. "It's a burning hunk of metal that doesn't have a heartbeat. One touch, and you're water vapor. If you survive that, you're a hoof print in the dust. Get it? This is our _only_ chance."

The rumbling grew steadier, and a lamp promptly tipped off a table. A low groan shook the windows—the bellow of a cow, a thousand cows. Sam's resolve wavered. He lowered his gun uncertainly. "Dean—"

His brother stared at him in disbelief. "Seriously?" A second groan shattered the windows. Dean swore. "Alright, alright!" He threw up his arms at them. "Fine!"

Nico nodded. "Perce, meet me on Main Street; they'll cut through the neighborhood to get here." He turned to the hunters. "Tell your angel to find me. _Now_." He melted into the shadows without another word, but Sam couldn't focus on how inhuman that was.

Percy looked pained. "Talk to Rachel," he said to Annabeth. "She can help you find the garden. And," he glanced stonily at the brothers, "be careful."

"We're not actually murderers," Sam interjected, but he was ignored. Dean rolled his eyes at his brother and turned away reluctantly, most likely to call Cas.

Annabeth's jaw was clenched as she said, "Don't you dare get yourself killed."

"What, and Nico won't get himself killed?"

She gritted her teeth. "Nico's not an idiot." She closed her eyes, sighed. "Just—you don't have the curse anymore. And there's no Medea oil." Her eyes were imploring. "Remember, you'll burn if you're not careful."

"Not as fast," he said. "I'll IM you as soon as the first wave is clear." He kissed her, and it looked so private and _loving_ that Sam averted his eyes. But it was over quickly, and Percy was bounding out the door as fast as his long legs could carry him.

Annabeth seemed to recover fast. She looked at them, eyes hard as diamonds. "You got a car?"

Sam and Dean locked eyes. This was definitely not what they signed up for.

* * *

**I really hope that didn't suck.**

**About the brazen bulls and Medea oil: around the first Jason's time, he had to perform a set of trials in order to gain a king's trust. The first was to fight a metal bull made by Hephaestus himself that breathed fire and could kill a man with the touch of its burning horns. Medea, the king's daughter, was heads-over-heels for Jason and, being a sorceress herself, supplied him with a magic salve that prevented him from being burned to death. Assume that Medea oil is not easy to find/make.**

**Thanks for being patient with me!**


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